and Harry Lorrequer, who rose that morning with nothing but despair and darkness before him, was now the happiest of men.
Dear reader, I have little more to confess. Lord Callonby’s politics were fortunately deemed of more moment than maidenly scruples, and the treasury benches more respected than the trousseau. Our wedding was therefore settled for the following week. Meanwhile, every day seemed to teem with its own meed of good fortune. My good uncle, under whose patronage, forty odd years before, Colonel Kamworth had obtained his commission, undertook to effect the reconciliation between him and the Wallers, who now only waited for our wedding, before they set out for Hydrabad cottage, that snug receptacle of Curry and Madeira, Jack confessing that he had rather listen to the siege of Java, by that fire-side, than hear an account of Waterloo from the lips of the great Duke himself.
I wrote to Trevanion to invite him to Munich for the ceremony, and the same post which informed me that he was en route to join us, brought also a letter from my eccentric friend O’Leary, whose name having so often occurred in these confessions, I am tempted to read aloud, the more so as its contents are no secret, Kilkee having insisted upon reading it to a committee of the whole family assembled after dinner.
“Dear Lorrequer,
“The trial is over, and I am acquitted, but still in St. Pelagie; for as the government were determined to cut my head off if guilty, so the mob resolved to murder me if innocent. A pleasant place this: before the trial, I was the most popular man in Paris; my face was in every print shop; plaster busts of me, with a great organ behind the ear, in all the thoroughfares; my autograph selling at six and twenty sous, and a lock of my hair at five francs. Now that it is proved I did not murder the “minister at war,” (who is in excellent health and spirits) the popular feeling against me is very violent; and I am looked upon as an imposter, who obtained his notoriety under false pretences; and Vernet, who had begun my picture for a Judas, has left off in disgust. Your friend Trevanion is a trump; he procured a Tipperary gentleman to run away with Mrs. Ram, and they were married at Frankfort, on Tuesday last. By the by, what an escape you had of Emily: she was only quizzing you all the time. She is engaged to be married to Tom O’Flaherty, who is here now. Emily’s imitation of you, with the hat a little on one side, and a handkerchief flourishing away in one hand, is capital; but when she kneels down and says, ‘dearest Emily, &c.’ you’d swear it was yourself.”–[Here the laughter of the auditory prevented Kilkee proceeding, who, to my utter confusion, resumed after a little.]–“Don’t be losing your time making up to Lord Callonby’s daughter”–[here came another burst of laughter]–“they say here you have not a chance, and moreover she’s a downright flirt.”–[“It is your turn now, Jane,” said Kilkee, scarcely able to proceed.] –“Besides that, her father’s a pompous old Tory, that won’t give a sixpence with her; and the old curmudgeon, your uncle, has as much idea of providing for you, as he has of dying.”–[This last sally absolutely convulsed all parties.]–“To be sure Kilkee’s a fool, but he is no use to you.”–[“Begad I thought I was going to escape,” said the individual alluded to, “but your friend O’Leary cuts on every side of him.”] The letter, after some very grave reflections upon the hopelessness of my pursuit, concluded with a kind pledge to meet me soon, and become my travelling companion. Meanwhile, added he, “I must cross over to London, and look after my new work, which is to come out soon, under the title of ‘the Loiterings of Arthur O’Leary.'”
This elegant epistle formed the subject of much laughter and conversation amongst us long after it was concluded; and little triumph could be claimed by any party, when nearly all were so roughly handled. So passed the last evening I spent in Munich–the next morning I was married.
THE END.
EBOOK EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS FOR ALL VOLUMES:
A c’est egal, mam’selle, they don’t mind these things in France A rather unlady-like fondness for snuff
A crowd is a mob, if composed even of bishops Accept of benefits with a tone of dissatisfaction Accustomed to the slowness and the uncertainty of the law Air of one who seeks to consume than enjoy his time Always a pleasure felt in the misfortunes of even our best friend Amount of children which is algebraically expressed by an X And some did pray–who never prayed before Annoyance of her vulgar loquacity
Brought a punishment far exceeding the merits of the case Chateaux en Espagne
Chew over the cud of his misfortune Daily association sustains the interest of the veriest trifles Dear, dirty Dublin–Io te salute
Delectable modes of getting over the ground through life Devilish hot work, this, said the colonel Disputing “one brandy too much” in his bill Empty, valueless, heartless flirtation
Ending–I never yet met the man who could tell when it ended Enjoy the name without the gain
Enough is as good as a feast
Escaped shot and shell to fall less gloriously beneath champagne Every misfortune has an end at last
Exclaimed with Othello himself, “Chaos was come again;” Fearful of a self-deception where so much was at stake Fighting like devils for conciliation
Finish in sorrow what you have begun in folly Gardez vous des femmes, and more especially if they be Irish Green silk, “a little off the grass, and on the bottle” Had a most remarkable talent for selecting a son-in-law Had to hear the “proud man’s contumely”
Half pleased and whole frightened with the labour before him Has but one fault, but that fault is a grand one Hating each other for the love of God
He first butthers them up, and then slithers them down He was very much disguised in drink
How ingenious is self-deception
If such be a sin, “then heaven help the wicked” Indifferent to the many rebuffs she momentarily encountered Involuntary satisfaction at some apparent obstacle to my path Jaunting-cars, with three on a side and “one in the well” Least important functionaries took the greatest airs upon them Levelling character of a taste for play
Listen to reason, as they would call it in Ireland Memory of them when hallowed by time or distance Might almost excite compassion even in an enemy Misfortune will find you out, if ye were hid in a tay chest Mistaking zeal for inclination
Mistaking your abstraction for attention My English proves me Irish
My French always shows me to be English Never able to restrain myself from a propensity to make love Nine-inside leathern “conveniency,” bumping ten miles an hour No equanimity like his who acts as your second in a duel Nothing seemed extravagant to hopes so well founded Nothing ever makes a man so agreeable as the belief that he is Now, young ladies, come along, and learn something, if you can Oh, the distance is nothing, but it is the pace that kills Opportunely been so overpowered as to fall senseless Other bottle of claret that lies beyond the frontier of prudence Packed jury of her relatives, who rarely recommend you to mercy Pleased are we ever to paint the past according to our own fancy Profoundly and learnedly engaged in discussing medicine Profuse in his legends of his own doings in love and war Rather better than people with better coats on them Rather a dabbler in the “ologies”
Recovered as much of their senses as the wine had left them Respectable heir-loom of infirmity
Seems ever to accompany dullness a sustaining power of vanity Sixteenthly, like a Presbyterian minister’s sermon Stoicism which preludes sending your friend out of the world Strong opinions against tobacco within doors Suppose I have laughed at better men than ever he was Sure if he did, doesn’t he take it out o’ me in the corns? That vanity which wine inspires
That “to stand was to fall,”
That land of punch, priests, and potatoes The divil a bit better she was nor a pronoun The tone of assumed compassion
The “fat, fair, and forty” category There are unhappily impracticable people in the world There is no infatuation like the taste for flirtation They were so perfectly contented with their self-deception Time, that ‘pregnant old gentleman,’ will disclose all Unwashed hands, and a heavy gold ring upon his thumb Vagabond if Providence had not made me a justice of the peace We pass a considerable portion of our lives in a mimic warfare What will not habit accomplish
What we wish, we readily believe
What we wish we readily believe
When you pretended to be pleased, unluckily, I believed you Whenever he was sober his poverty disgusted him Whiskey, the appropriate liquor in all treaties of this nature Whose paraphrase of the book of Job was refused Wretched, gloomy-looking picture of woe-begone poverty